


Fade To Black, Commercial Break (This Is Where The Censor Kicks In)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn Fabray, queen of repression, sometimes hates her body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade To Black, Commercial Break (This Is Where The Censor Kicks In)

Title: Fade To Black, Commercial Break (This Is Where The Censor Kicks In)  
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez, Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, mild Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce  
Rating: NC-17  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None.  
Summary: Quinn Fabray, queen of repression, sometimes hates her body.  
A/N: Porn for porn’s sake. I had two smutty-ass plots (erm…non-plots) in mind, and just kind of…combined them into one monstrous sexyfic. Title from Darren Hayes' "Dirty."

Sometimes, being the daughter of a wealthy, painfully religious couple can really be the pits.

Quinn thinks this often enough; it’s hard to appreciate the moral value of her upbringing when she is the only fifteen-year-old not permitted to listen to modern radio, or when she’s held back from a field trip to a private showing of Harry Potter due to the whole witchcraft element. Not that the other kids at school say much to her about it; the strict rulings of her father do not in the least diminish Quinn’s own superiority in athletics, academics, or her overall attractiveness. Nor does it quash down the intimidation factor of her best friend; Santana Lopez would gladly demolish the first pipsqueak to so much as _breathe_ insubordination in Quinn’s direction.

Still. Sometimes, it really sucks.

Normally, she can push whatever’s bothering her aside fairly easily. Harry Potter can’t possibly be _that_ great; the fact that J.K. Rowling has a fanbase of millions is indicative only of the sheep-like tendencies behind contemporary literature. And the radio? Overrated. Who _wouldn’t_ like to listen to jams situated smack-dab in the seventies for all their days? Lady Gaga and her explosive fashion industry can just bite her.

But there is one thing that kind of grates on Quinn’s nerves—one thing her parents _certainly_ wouldn’t approve of—despite all attempts to shove it to the wayside.

Quinn Fabray is what the textbooks refer to as “aggressively sexually repressed.”

And on weeks like this one, she’s convinced it will flat-out kill her.

It always starts simply enough, a couple of wayward hormones teasing at the edge of her conscious mind, and she doesn’t bother herself about it. There are _always_ going to be hormones irritating her; she’s _fifteen_. She also happens to be one of the most stubborn people in Lima, Ohio, and therefore is perfectly attuned to the ins and outs of ignoring her own needs.

Nothing defeats Quinn Fabray. Not even…Quinn Fabray.

But those damn hormones never stay on her periphery for long. They nudge cautiously inward, testing her limits, teasing the edges of her sanity, and before she knows it, she always ends up like this.

A frustrated, sinful mess.

She can’t even _do_ anything about it; the one time she snapped and did attempt to…well… _take care_ of the problem, her mother decided it was the optimum time to barge in, claiming laundry as the excuse for her invasion. Quinn winces at the memory; _that_ bit of nostalgia is enough to dash out her libido for life.

Or so she wishes.

But no, she’s _here_. A complete and total wreck, wishing God would just remove her ovaries or glands or… _whatever_ so she wouldn’t have to deal. Because this? Sucks worse than Sue Sylvester’s cleansing diet.

For the sake of all that is sweet and holy in this world, she’s already had to leave class _three_ times, because Rachel Berry and her damn short skirts make life entirely too difficult sometimes. Not that she _did_ anything about it, aside from grip the sink until her fingers cramped up, staring into the grimy mirror as if she could will the throbbing between her legs away by sheer force of will. Why not? It’s a tactic that works for just about everything else in this school.

Except, like ever other part of Quinn Fabray, her libido is marvelously, dastardly willful. It wants what it wants, and it seems hell-bent on getting it.

Not that Quinn is going to give in to that particular whim. Absolutely not. What would it look like, if the captain of the Celibacy Club were to suddenly up and toss her legs over her head in some disheveled backseat? Abhorrent! Not to mention the tiny detail of (Quinn flinches at the thought) her not-so-latent homosexuality. Which she’s been working on, naturally.

Or trying to.

It’s really not as easy to ignore as all the pamphlets and camp brochures suggest.

Honestly, when it gets bad like this, she’s mostly concerned with the fact that she’s getting turned on in the first place, regardless of who’s doing it. The fact that people like Rachel Berry, with her obnoxiously gorgeous legs, or Brittany, with her impeccable flat abs, are the ones doing the most damage…

Quinn growls, thunking her fist against the porcelain. It’s just all kinds of not fair.

She’s a good girl—mostly—if you ignore all the insults and slushies and, okay, she’s not always the _nicest_ person, she supposes. But that doesn’t make her any less _good_. She goes to church weekly—and actually pays attention!—and prays three times a day. More, on weeks like this one. She’s read the Bible until its psalms and phrasings are etched permanently into her heart, and she _believes_. Genuinely, wholly, for her own sake as well as that of her parents. She is good, and right, and has absolutely no cause for… _this_.

And still, that damnable pulse rockets deep in her stomach, twisting and pounding as low as it can go. No amount of leg-crossing or meditative breathing helps, and God forbid she try to sleep it off. The last time she did that, she woke with…well…a distinct need for a shower.

Showers, for the record, are also kind of lacking in the helpful category.

The only thing that works is waiting it out. Luckily, the thrumming torture of it all does tend to pass after a few days. She has only to breathe her way through it.

Except, there’s always that part where breathing is really, really difficult to do when one feels like one might explode at any given moment. Sometimes, Quinn has to tilt her head back and suck air into her lungs like she’s just surfaced from the world’s deepest pool after an hour, and still she feels light-headed and miserable.

She supposes (and, again, insert cringe here) masturbation would be helpful if she could only bring herself to try again, but every time her hand so much as _tilts_ in that direction, her mind latches onto that ugly, ugly day. The door flying open, her mother’s wide-eyed, slightly glazed expression (Quinn has never before been so thankful for vodka; it is likely the only reason she escaped without being shipped immediately off to a convent), the sheer mortifying _heat_ of it all. If Quinn goes her whole life without blushing that vibrantly again, it will be entirely too soon.

So she can’t…do _that_. And she can’t will it away. The only thing left is to…

_Die a small death, apparently._

Practice is almost helpful, in that she is distracted for two hours by the pain in her legs and chest, rather than between her thighs. Of course, she would rather not feel this tortured at _all_ , but she supposes you win some and lose some. A world where howling over a charley horse is considered _winning_ kind of sucks, but at least it takes her mind off of the sight of what’s under Santana’s skirt.

Santana, she has found, is especially frustrating to be around at times like these. The girl is her best friend, but she is annoyingly aware of how hot she is, and that can be the bane of Quinn’s existence sometimes.

Particularly when, while in the midst of performing an epic air-split, the Latina catches her eye and winks saucily. Quinn looks away, ears burning.

She knows Santana doesn’t mean anything by it—the girl will flirt with just about anything in her social sphere—but it never fails to get to her. Not that she’s got a _crush_ on her best friend or anything. She’s just…appreciative.

Very appreciative.

Specifically where that skirt is concerned.

Groaning, Quinn shakes the thought away and returns to the task at hand. If she drops another Cheerio, Sylvester’s bound to kick her ass the only way she knows how: through extensive, borderline-corporal punishment. Quinn’s not _that_ desperate for distraction.

It actually works. The lifting and throwing and cartwheeling leads to all kinds of muscle burn; by the end of it, Quinn feels like she could drop dead of over-cheer, but the systematic churn of lust appears to have temporarily vacated the premises. She almost smiles.

The plan _was_ to catch up with Santana and Brittany and discuss an upcoming movie night (ideally one that would consist of nuns in cinema. Old nuns. Half-dead, really.), but of course Coach wants her attention first. Coach _always_ wants her attention. Sometimes, despite how out-and-out horrifying the woman is, Sue Sylvester kind of reminds her of a yappy terrier in desperate need of a Milkbone.

By the time she slips free, nearly fifteen minutes have surged by, and the likelihood is great that her friends have already gone home. It’s a bummer, but at least the empty locker room will afford less of a chance for Quinn to horribly embarrass herself. Scantily-clad women who have never learned the meaning of “quick change”? Not so useful when her system is already on overload.

She fully expects silence when she gets down the stairs, and for the first few seconds, that’s exactly what she hears.

For the first few seconds.

And then the whimpering starts.

At first, Quinn’s absolutely _positive_ she has lost her mind. The hormones have gone to her head, wielding a pair of scissors and snipping whatever thin cable is responsible for tethering her sanity together. She has clearly resorted to flat-out hallucinating in her blind need for sexual contact, and _great_ , this is going to be just _awesome_ to explain to the nice men in lab coats.

But then it comes again, a little louder, and Quinn realizes she _knows_ that whimper. Not by direct influence or anything, she hastens to correct herself, but all the same…

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t. Going around that corner, into the shower area, would be completely ludicrous. Asking for trouble, truly, and the last thing she needs right now is more trouble. Hell, she is barely keeping it together as it is; with her skin having cooled and her head cleared of Cheerio stress, the hellfire that is her wanton libido is returning with a vengeance. What she needs is to throw on a change of clothes and bolt like the hounds of Hell are at her heels.

Except her legs are leading her _towards_ said Hell-hounds. Rather quickly, actually. Quinn has never known such hatred for her feet.

She’s lucky, she thinks apprehensively, that the room is set up so easily for spy— _inspecting_ , she corrects herself at the last second, as if anyone else can hear her. The angle between the entrance and the showers is _just so_ : she can see in, with a little effort, but the person— _people_ —inside would have to sincerely put effort into looking back out.

Not that they’re going to. Because if she knows Santana and Brittany, looking out of that stall is the last thing on their minds.

_Bad idea._

Just _listening_ to them was an awful decision, as evidenced by the crushing frustration that begins in the pit of her stomach and worms its way down. Brittany—the bearer of such teasing, airy whimpers that Quinn almost wants to _die_ listening to them—is an absolute master at getting her going without even trying. Operating on Santana’s evil orders, she once or twice has actually _attempted_ to do so by placing her mouth dangerously near Quinn’s ear and making tiny gasping noises; the frustrated blonde decided on that day to forevermore _hate_ Santana Lopez’s immeasurable influence with a fiery passion.

Speaking of Santana, those soft murmurs of encouragement aren’t doing her a whole lot of good either. She can’t make out the words in complete sentences, per se, but she hears enough to know the dark-haired girl is…thoroughly engaged in what she is doing.

Which, she can see without trouble, mostly involves pinning Brittany’s naked body face-first into the shower wall.

 _Bad, bad,_ bad _idea._

She’s going to Hell for this, she knows, but damned if she can look away. Brittany’s face is contorted beautifully, brow drawn in concentration and eyes closed as she attempts to tilt her body backwards into Santana’s slowly grinding hips. Quinn bites her lip.

Watching her best friends engage in illicit shower sex: probably _not_ the most wholesome way to deal with her maddeningly out-of-control emotions. Dazedly, as she watches Santana brush blonde hair off of Brittany’s shoulder and place a kiss against pale skin, she makes a note to revisit this logical process some other time.

She feels, God help her, like _Puck_ , with his leering eyebrow waggle and patented pelvic thrust, but they make such a gorgeous combination. Santana’s caramel skin against Brittany’s ivory, both deliciously soaked through, the press of small breasts against a firm back, long fingers winding their way down Brittany’s stomach and into—

_Oh fuck me._

This is _beyond_ inappropriate, beyond the most wildly guilt-inducing thought she has ever had, and still Quinn cranes her neck to get a better look. The pounding between her legs has increased to such a degree that she’s not sure how she’s still standing upright; Lord knows her knees have gone soft and rubbery, her legs shaking powerfully as she watches Brittany’s lips part around a low moan. Santana, moving with slow, seductive ease, traces patterns into the blonde’s skin, careful to avoid places that might afford instant gratification.

“San,” Brittany whimpers, almost too softly to be heard over the rush of water drenching them both. Santana’s lips brush against her neck, silent and more serene than Quinn has ever seen her; Brittany utters a sigh and arches her back.

As Santana’s hands climb higher, caressing the blonde’s abdomen and cupping her breasts, her hips continue that steady, rhythmic motion against Brittany’s backside. Unable to tear her eyes away, Quinn wonders what it would feel like to be in the other girl’s place, pinning Brittany so effortlessly, stroking practiced thumbs over delicate skin, stiff nipples, down the line of the girl’s stomach. She wonders how it might feel to grasp one of Brittany’s hipbones, the way Santana is now, and suck possessively on Brittany’s pulse point. She wonders about the sensation of water running in gentle rivulets over the slim, tanned shoulders and down the curve of her spine.

Do droplets feel the same, she considers dazedly, when there are _two_ people to accept the spray?

Brittany’s voice is getting higher, breathier, as Santana’s right hand wanders down between her legs again, this time pressing lightly to what Quinn assumes is the girl’s clit. The spying cheerleader leans back a fraction of an inch, captivated by the curl of Santana’s lips into a smirk as she rubs in methodical circles, first one direction, then the other. Brittany cants her hips slowly in return, as if she’s consciously trying to savor the situation. Quinn closes her eyes for a moment, hands clutching the bottom of her skirt, mentally placing herself in the stall with them. How might it feel, to stand under that draining shower head, pressed between the wall and Brittany’s lithe body? Would the other blonde kiss her lips? Her ear? Her throat? Would she press one strong leg solidly between Quinn’s thighs, rocking up until the shorter girl groaned her satisfaction, hands grasping at Brittany’s waist for dear life?

And what about Santana? Would she continue to stroke between Brittany’s legs, hand trapped between wet, slippery skin and Quinn’s own thigh? Would she _share_ the blonde who has always so obviously been hers, or would she grow domineering, possessive?

Yes, Quinn thinks, _that_ is the more likely scenario. Santana would never step aside and allow her girl—because there is no doubt in Quinn’s mind, nor in the mind of _any_ William McKinley High attendee, that Brittany is indeed Santana’s girl—to grind and rub frantically against another body while Santana herself stood idly by. She would certainly show a little backbone, a little proof that no threesome would ever be complete without Santana Lopez at the helm.

In the back of her mind, it strikes Quinn that she is actually entertaining fantasies about a _threesome_ with her best friends. It should probably be one of the more disturbing revelations of her life, but she finds herself entirely too hazy-minded to care.

In the stall, Santana has flipped Brittany around to face her, pressing the girl almost tenderly into black and red tile and sliding a hand into soaked blonde hair. She pulls Brittany close, kisses her with long, open-mouthed strokes, groaning quietly when Brittany reciprocates hungrily. In her mind, Quinn is still in that euphoric place with them, pressed now between their bodies as Brittany nips along the line of her neck, her jaw, her cheekbone. Santana has her by the face, one hand palming her cheek, teeth digging lightly into her bottom lip.

Inside the stall, Santana nudges Brittany’s nose with her own, tilting her head this way and that to prevent her from capturing full lips again. It is easily the most erotic display Quinn has ever imagined—slow, sensual, blatantly seductive—especially when Santana’s hand sneaks low and curls between their bodies. She imagines the rush of tight, blinding fullness as two fingers curl majestically into a drenched body—hers, Brittany’s; right now, they might as well be one and the same. She imagines how her stomach would coil and unwind as Santana strokes in and out of the taller blonde, still brushing her lips coyly against Brittany’s, always remaining just out of reach. Both blondes release low gasps for air; Quinn’s fingers fist tighter in her skirt, her eyes lidded. Brittany’s body rocks, riding out each thrust like she’s been made to take them.

As she watches, Brittany throws her head back as Santana pulls her hand free and lowers herself, kiss by kiss, to rest on her knees under the rush of water. In Quinn’s mind, Santana moves her lips to one breast, licking in quick, brief motions until Quinn feels her stomach contract with want. Behind her, Brittany’s hands follow Santana’s lips, brushing and pinching every patch of skin the dark-haired girl comes into contact with, until Santana's mouth is pressed ravenously against Quinn’s hipbone. Eyes nearly closed, she can practically _feel_ the sharp bite, equal parts playful and domineering, soothed in the next beat by a rough, flat tongue.

She’s so lost in her fantasy that she nearly misses it when Santana holds Brittany firmly by the hips and grins up at her, the picture of that weird, slightly wicked devotion which has so characterized their relationship all these years. It’s strangely endearing, made none the less so when Brittany quirks a half-smile in return before impatiently placing both hands atop dark hair and pushing the smaller girl in. Something twitches within Quinn’s chest—something oddly unrelated to the blazing lust that is quickly and humiliatingly decimating her underwear. She thinks it might actually be envy.

And then Santana’s head is bobbing between Brittany’s spread legs, pulling one to bend over her shoulder as she moves as close as one person is able to another, and Brittany’s head is bent forward, blue eyes fixed determinedly upon what Santana is doing. Quinn’s right hand inches of its own accord towards the hem of her skirt; desperately, she clamps the fingers of the left around the wayward wrist. She can’t do _that_ ; even if she were comfortable, the idea of touching herself to the image of her best friends is just…

_Kind of alluring, actually, but God would never understand._

Not that God is probably going to be very forgiving of what she’s doing _anyway_ , but she finds she can hardly focus on that at all. Santana is making rather loud, pleased noises against the very core of Brittany, and the blonde appears to be losing all control. In her mind’s eye, Quinn sees her own body reacting in kind: reclining against Brittany’s strong, agile frame, feeling the press and curl of Santana’s tongue against her, driving in and out of dripping, soft skin, in and out of _Quinn_. As Brittany’s hand tightens in Santana’s hair, urging her closer while the dancer bites down on the inside of her other wrist, Quinn groans low in her throat; she can hear so perfectly the desperate wails muffled against brilliant white skin, can see the tightening of Brittany’s brow, the way her knee seems to bend in an effort to pull Santana _into_ her body. She watches Brittany pull at her own hair, running her nails feverishly against the scalp underneath as her pelvis grinds hard against Santana’s face. Encouraged, Santana continues to eagerly drink in every available ounce, her motions quickening with every passing second. She watches Santana move one hand between her own thighs, dipping in low, and hears the reverberation of her husky groan against Brittany’s skin.

There isn’t anything slow about them anymore; Santana’s head is moving at an almost absurd pace, her tongue clearly swiping across Brittany in quick, sharp measures. Her free hand, Quinn watches, slips up the blonde’s inner thigh, nails scraping up and up before her fingers disappear entirely. Her wrist curls; Brittany’s spine goes rigid, arching off the wall, her cries building and echoing as she grabs at any part of Santana she can reach to stay upright.

In the valley of her mind, Quinn tries valiantly to follow where they have led, but something—the lack of _actual_ physical contact, she thinks bitterly, or perhaps the fact that she has never actually _had_ an orgasm of her own—keeps her rooted in place. She can only see herself in Brittany’s arms, tilting her head to receive long, deep kisses as Santana continues to taste her, tongue dipping in and out at a maddeningly hesitant rate.

It occurs to her, blindly, that she isn’t getting any further thinking about this, and she is probably running out of time to dart out of this room before she is caught. Watching Santana shatter under the spray would be perfectly enticing, she has to admit as a shiver rolls down her spine, but it is _not_ worth being murdered at the hands of her best friend, should she ever find out Quinn has just watched them do… _that_.

Moving on wobbly, anxious legs, Quinn hurries back to the locker room proper, yanks on a fresh shirt and clean skirt (wishing all the while she had thought to bring extra underwear today as well; the pair she’s got on are so far past ruined, she’s actually kind of horrified to think about remaining in them for even five more minutes), and rushes up the stairs. She’s proud of herself for not falling on the way; all the blood in her body seems to have headed in a very distinctly-southern direction, leaving her light-headed and clumsy as hell.

_Probably not a great state for driving home._

Which leaves her sitting in her car. Looking a little lost.

Like an idiot.

When Santana and Brittany emerge from the school, wet hair tied back and looking immensely satisfied with themselves, she sits up and engages in a momentary struggle over whether or not to make eye contact. On the one hand, she has never been unable to look Santana Lopez in the eye for _any_ reason; looking away is a sign of weakness, and one Santana would easily exploit if given half a chance. On the other, she has never before watched actual _sex_ transpire before her eyes, much less sex between her best friends, and she’s more than mildly terrified it will show.

Loudly and vibrantly.

She swallows hard.

“Hey, Q,” Santana greets her lazily, swinging the passenger door open and slipping inside. Brittany waves at her through the other window.

“Uh. Hi,” Quinn manages lamely, glancing up through her eyelashes at the blonde beside her car. “Not getting in, Britt?”

“Mom’s picking me up,” she replies cheerfully. “We’re going out for Chinese!”

“Great, B,” Quinn chokes out, trying her damndest not to think of the words ‘eating’ and ‘Brittany’ in the same sentence. _Possibly ever again._

“See you guys tomorrow!” Brittany adds when a blue SUV swings into the lot. She tosses another wave over her shoulder and bounds off. Quinn blankly grips the steering wheel, staring straight ahead and praying that the relentless arousal will taper off somewhere in the next twelve seconds.

Santana eyes her curiously. “You gonna make it?”

“Yeah,” Quinn grunts, shakily throwing the car into drive and inching towards the exit. Santana crosses her arms over her chest, shrugging.

“Just don’t kill us. I’m supposed to babysit Carlos on Thursday, and Mama will flat-out raise my spirit to bitch me out if you ruin that plan.”

It’s just enough to loosen the iron grip around Quinn’s heart. She rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to kill us. Give me a break, Lopez.”

“Had me fooled, _Fabray_ ,” Santana shoots back with a smug little smirk, pointing right out her window. “Let’s go to your place. I’m so not in the mood for reenactments of kindergarten block theft right now.”

Obediently, Quinn shifts her blinker on and makes the instinctive, three-and-a-half-minute drive home. The driveway, of course, is empty; this being a day that ends in Y, her mother is bound to be at church with her hat-wearing, card-playing lady friends. Her father will be at work, as he always is until about nine in the evening.

Quinn’s pretty used to locked doors and vacant living rooms.

“I’m fucking starved,” Santana informs the silent house, waltzing right in without removing her shoes and stretching her arms above her head. Behind her, Quinn tries not to stare at the patch of skin between Santana's sweatpants and zip-up hoodie.

“And you want _me_ to do something about this?” she demands, re-locking the door behind herself and arching an eyebrow. Santana shoots a grin over her shoulder, striding straight into the kitchen with Quinn at her heels.

“Have you seen me cook? Fire hazards every which way. I don’t suppose your bitch ass wants to explain to Daddy how his mansion of a home burned to the ground in a single afternoon?”

 _As opposed to over the course of_ several _?_ Quinn shakes her head. “Fine. Whatever. But I’m just doing a veggie pizza. No three-courses or anything. I’m not your damn slave.”

She curses her word choice when Santana bats her eyelashes. “So you believe, babycakes.”

“Shut up.” Turning away, Quinn yanks open the freezer and rummages around inside. Santana hops onto one of the island stools and makes a grand show of watching the other girl place the pizza in question onto a baking stone.

“Ah, the culinary finesse of a Fabray. I don’t know why you bother with school when you’ve got such a _clear_ career path mapped out in front of you.”

“Shut. Up,” Quinn repeats, pressing two fingers sullenly to her temple. She is turned on, stressed out, and kind of starving; now is so not the time for Santana’s annoying little assaults on her sanity.

Santana shrugs, swiveling the stool left and right like an eight-year-old on a carnival ride. “You’re kind of in epic ice queen mode today, huh?”

“And you’re kind of grating on my nerves,” Quinn retaliates, which is pretty uncalled for, but all she can picture is dark hair bobbing between milky thighs and _dammit_ , today was a bad day to mimic the behavior patterns of Jewfro.

Santana looks mildly impressed. “What else is new, Blondie?”

Quinn sighs. “Nothing. I’m just…sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Santana grins. “See, now I’ve lost respect for you,” she says mildly, jumping down from the stool and trip-trapping her fingers across the countertop. “Apologies are _so_ very bougie. Anyway, I’m gonna go raid your mom’s bathroom. Be right back.”

“Don’t steal anything this time,” Quinn calls after her, weary and irritated with herself for showing it. This is going downhill fast. Santana has always been remarkable at calling her out on what she’d least like to talk about, and today is sure to be no exception. If her guard lowers any further, it will be in the basement, and there is no _way_ Santana won’t notice.

And when Santana notices, this is all bound to get _real_ embarrassing.

She groans, head dropping into her hands. This is unbelievable. Were she anyone else in the world, there would be no problem: she would get horny, get off, and get happy again all within a single solitary afternoon. But _no_ , she has to be Quinn Fabray, mistress of all that is repressed, miserable, and awkward.

It’s sick; like she’s some reject-outcast loser who can’t function in normal teenage society? She _owns_ McKinley inside and out, practically has the whole building on her social payroll. She owns _everything_. In a matter of months, she will be out of this freshman hell and into a world belonging solely to her, and she is getting worked up over a couple of rogue hormones?  
 _  
…yes, actually, that sums it up nicely._

Groaning again, she swivels and moves to sidle past the island to the oven—and misjudges, thunking directly into the edge of the countertop.

With her hips.

Which, apart from the mild bruised sensation, actually…could feel worse.

This is so very stupid, but she reconciles it by reminding herself that this? Isn’t masturbation. It’s clumsiness. Repeated clumsiness. Of the intentional variety.

Okay, it’s not _normal_ to grind oneself against a kitchen surface, but for God’s sake, she’s losing her mind here. She is losing her mind, and this is the closest she has felt to relief since last Friday, and frankly, Quinn will take just about anything right now. Even if that “anything” consciously registers as the most ridiculous—

“And _why_ are you humping the architecture?”

She jumps a mile, managing to jerk backwards as she does so as not to turn pleasure into rather excruciating pain. Santana stands in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyebrow arched. Quinn flushes.

“N-Nothing. Nothing, no reason.” She swallows uncomfortably. “What?”

Santana strides slowly into the room, hips swishing with what Quinn feels is slight over-enthusiasm. She pauses next to the island, cocking her head and inspecting the countertop closely.

“Well,” she says at last, “as kitchens go, yours is definitely a classy broad. I hope you’ve at least talked dinner and a movie now that you’ve been so forward.”

“Shut up,” Quinn mutters, turning towards the stove as she pushes the hair out of her face. “Just…give me this one, Lopez, okay?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Santana throw her weight tauntingly against the counter, batting her eyelashes obnoxiously.

“No can do, Fabray. What’s the deal? Something got you a little hot ‘n bothered?”

 _Well, gee, what gave it away?_ “No,” she grouses, turning her back fully on her best friend. “Go away.”

“Now there’s something I _definitely_ can’t do,” Santana shoots back cheerfully. “Since you promised me pizza and all. The making fun of your horny ass is just an added bonus. _Huge_ , by the way. Mega-bonus. I’m thinking lotto win of the semester, at least.”

“You’re a pig,” Quinn bites off, thrusting the pizza into the oven and jabbing a finger violently into the timer button. Santana laughs.

“Me? You were the one humping the—“

“Could you maybe _stop_ saying ‘humping’?” Quinn snaps desperately, turning on her heel and glaring venomously. Santana raises her hands in mock-surrender.

“Fine. Whatever, Fabray. Don’t tell me. Maybe I’ll just have to have a little chat with Mrs. Pillsbury about how my best friend is engaging in clandestine relationships with her kitchen counter…”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Quinn seethes. Santana smirks, giving a little ‘what can you do?’ shrug to emphasize how much of a _bitch_ she is. She sags against the sink, probing her forehead with two fingers.

“Fine,” she mutters. “I’m just…having a bad week.”

“Or a really, really good one,” Santana teases, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. Quinn slams a hand on the counter.

“No! Bad. Very, very bad. I’ve been…” Her voice sinks to a mortified whisper. “I’ve been _aroused_ all the…all the damn _time_ , and I can’t…”

Dark eyes narrow; with anyone else, this would probably be a look of concern. With Santana, Quinn knows it’s just morbid, calculating curiosity.

“What about the ol’…?” Slim hips pump forward and back lewdly as Santana wags a hand in the air. Quinn cringes.

“Not an option.”

“Self-service is _always_ an option, Q,” Santana deadpans. Quinn’s head shakes so hard, her brain feels like it might come undone and bound away. Not that she’s not already halfway to that point, intellect-wise.

“I just…I’m not good at…I don’t like…”

She sounds like an idiot. By the quirk of Santana’s lips, her friend certainly agrees.

“Slow the fuck down, Fabray,” she snaps, sauntering closer and eyeing Quinn appraisingly. “I think we can work this out if we put our heads together.”

Quinn frowns. “You do?”

“Sure,” Santana replies calmly. “We’re two smokin’ hot, brilliant young women blessed with grace and passion, and—“ She pauses, looking Quinn up and down again, then grins wickedly. “Okay, maybe we’ll just need my head for this.”

“You,” Quinn sniffs, “are _such_ an ass.”

“And you are a prude and a half, Princess,” Santana quips. “Come on, what is your _deal_? Don’t tell me you believe all that ‘you’ll go blind’ bullshit. I promise, a little mouse-clicking never hurt anybody.”

“What do computers have to do with—“ Quinn pales. “Oh.”

Santana laughs. “It’ll help all of us if you just do it. We won’t have to deal with you panting like a cat in heat in school, you’ll actually be able to focus at practice.” Slyly, she narrows her eyes. “You might even stop spying on Brittany and me in the showers.”

_Fuck._

“You. I. I mean—it’s just…”

“Shut up,” Santana hisses, tone blasting all the way to black ice before Quinn can blink. “You hypocritical little perv. You really thought we didn’t know? God, how stupid _are_ you?”

“You didn’t…look…” It’s social suicide to break eye contact with Santana Lopez, which is the only reason Quinn’s head isn’t hanging with shame. Santana chuckles.

“Like we’d have to. Do you really think we’d have sex in _public_ if we couldn’t hear people sneaking up? Jesus, Quinn. Get your head out of that hot little ass.”

Quinn scowls. “Look, I’m sorry, but _you_ shouldn’t have been… _screwing_ in the locker room anyway! How often have you guys done that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Santana moves closer, swinging her hips and stretching her arms above her head like she’s gearing up for the mother of all lapdances. Quinn’s throat goes dry.

“No. Not at all, actually. It’s…poor teamsmanship.”

“I do so love when you make up words, _Captain_ ,” Santana husks with a smirk, close enough now that Quinn can smell the other girl’s shampoo. She shakes her head.

“Just…forget it, okay, S? I’m sorry. I’m sorry I watched. Temporary insanity or something, I don’t know—“

Strong arms lock on other side of her body, fingers clamping around the edge of the sink. Santana tilts her head back, breathing neat and even, in every way the polar opposite of Quinn’s.

“Did it help?” she asks, voice rasping as it teases from her lips. Quinn blinks.

“What?”

“Watching. Did it make you feel better?” There is no such thing as a personal bubble between them anymore. Quinn shivers as Santana’s body curves lightly against her own, the faintest of pressure. Unbidden, memories of those toned arms wrapping around a pale torso fire boldly back into her mind.

“I really don’t think this is—“

“Tell me,” Santana breathes against Quinn’s lips, nose sliding against nose. “Was it hot enough for you?”

It wasn’t, Quinn thinks breathlessly, but _this_ certainly is. Before she’s even aware she’s moving, her hand is buried in dark tresses, bringing Santana firmly against her body. They’re kissing, and it is harsh and bold and furious, nothing like the tentative boys Quinn has tried to make herself like in the past. There is no respect here, no gentle prodding or testing of the waters; Santana has taken it upon herself to dive right in, mouth opening over Quinn’s, tongue slipping past the blonde’s teeth and possessing her completely. Quinn moans, thanking Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that her parents are an After-School Special’s _dream_ even as her hands roam across Santana’s back.

It’s better than her fantasies (although, if she’s honest, she does kind of miss Brittany a little), better than anything she’s ever imagined before. Santana pushes hard, and Quinn pushes back, matching her kiss for kiss, bite for bite. When Santana shoves Quinn’s shirt up and makes her way brutally to second base, Quinn tosses her own indecision into a mental dumpster and returns in kind. The minute she lets Santana Lopez get away from her, she knows, is the moment she will become her bitch.

And Quinn Fabray is _nobody’s_ bitch.

She latches on to Santana’s neck, biting and sucking and generally carrying on like some two-bit whore in one of Puck’s pornos. She’ll look back on it later and hate herself a little, but for now, Santana is releasing the most spine-tingling groans, and Quinn thinks the sounds make everything forgivable. Even the fact that she is grinding her pelvis with a wild lunacy against that of her best friend.

Santana, to be fair, is grinding back even harder, as if she hasn’t spent half her afternoon getting off with another girl. Her fingers dig into Quinn’s ribcage, her lips marking the skin spilling over the edge of Quinn’s bra. Quinn rocks forward, ignoring the searing pain in her back—the result of being slammed without a second of mercy against the countertop—and gasping when Santana claims a nipple through fabric.

Masturbation, she thinks, would be a bit easier to achieve and _much_ easier to forget once she’s finished, but no _way_ would it feel this good.

She can hear herself making horribly feral little noises, all moans and whimpers, her lower half bucking rhythmically as Santana works a hand without preamble against the front of her sweats. She wants to remind Santana that, unlike her, she is _not_ a tramp, is _still_ a virgin, and truthfully _isn’t_ so interested in losing that particular card right now. It doesn’t matter; Santana does not actually slide her hand into the pants. Instead, she cups Quinn lightly, as if testing her boundaries, then pries Quinn’s right hand off of her breast.

“What?” Quinn tries to ask, but Santana only shakes her head and kisses her again, less brutal this time, but still lacking the tender affection she’s seen between the dark-haired girl and their mutual dancer friend. She frowns. “Santana, what are— _oh_.”

What Santana is doing, obviously enough, is guiding Quinn’s hand underneath her own waistband and into her underwear. Quinn’s eyes widen.

“I don’t think this is going to wo-wor—oh _wow_.”

Aided by the knowledgeable pressure of Santana’s fingertips around her own, Quinn feels herself—really _feels_ herself—for the first time since that whole laundry day fiasco. She is, almost alarmingly, wet and soft and needy—really, really needy.

Propped up against the counter, with the oven ticking down the last minutes on their pizza and her best friend’s hand down her pants, Quinn allows her body to relax at last. She lets Santana show her where to go, introducing a flick of two fingers here or a light massage there, until her hips are steadily twitching up into each caress. She lets it happen, and it feels so damn good that her eyes slip shut for a minute, her breath hitching in her chest.

When she opens them again, that helping hand is gone; Santana is chewing furtively on her lower lip, fingers winding slowly under the band of her own sweats, watching as Quinn keeps up the slow, curious motion all on her own. She feels a snaking sense of pride as Santana grips her hipbone with her free hand, the other moving quickly against herself, eyelids flickering as she watches Quinn’s midsection with volatile interest.

It is easily the most stimulating sight in the world, prompting Quinn to press harder and rub faster, until she’s keeping pace with Santana, until her moans are matching the other girl’s in frequency and volume. She prays to God and every available saint in the pantheon that her parents do not choose _now_ to come home, because she’s pretty sure the sight of their youngest daughter and the girl from down the block stroking themselves in tandem in the middle of the kitchen would…

Well, it would be enough to put a permanent kibosh on this whole scenario, that’s for sure.

“Where are you going?” Santana rasps, thrusting her pelvis into her hand and squeezing Quinn’s hip. “Stay with me, Fabray. Stay—“

She goes stiff, eyes snapping shut, hand working mercilessly inside her underwear. Quinn gives herself another series of sharp strokes, pumping hard against her fingertips, and, just like that, something seems to snap. Her muscles clench, her mind coming apart at the seams as she ruts into her own hand.

Santana slumps against her, retracting her hand just in time to catch herself on Quinn. She gasps.

“That…you…I…”

“Articulate,” Santana manages to mock, forehead damp with sweat. A few strands of hair are matted down, sneaking into her shining eyes; without thinking, Quinn slides them aside.

“What was _that_?” she demands. Santana grins.

“That, my fucking _repressed_ friend, was an orgasm. Please, do us all a favor and try to have them as often as possible. I cannot deal with your uber-Christian abstinence-from-happiness bullshit anymore.”

“I mean,” Quinn clarifies, pushing Santana away enough to ease off of the counter’s sharp edge, “what…what is Brittany going to think?”

Santana shrugs, shouldering Quinn aside and flicking the tap on to wash her hand. “She’ll be pissed she missed it, I figure. We’ll probably have to do it again sometime. Just to, y’know, make her happy.”

Quinn’s head spins. “We…we just had…did we just have…?”

“Sex?” Santana shoots her a wink and a smirk. “No, babydoll, I think that would mean me actually touching your lady parts. Which, hey, play those cards right and we’ll see. But for now, I’d say think of this as an…intimate study session.”

“Study session,” Quinn repeats blankly. “What exactly did we just study?”

“The art of draining you of unnecessary bitchery,” Santana replies, just as the timer goes off. She swings a hand up, silencing the buzzer, and fumbles for an oven mitt. Quinn hands it over wordlessly, staring at the floor.

When the pizza has made it safely to the stovetop, Santana turns to look the blonde in the eye again, hands back on her hips. “You’re not going to go and get all creepy on me now, are you, Fabray? Don’t make me regret being nice.”

“Nice,” Quinn repeats. “You…you just _jumped_ me in my _kitchen_.”

“Uh huh.” Santana looks somewhat bored. “And how do you feel now?”

“I…” Quinn frowns, thinking. Actually, her body has sunk into sort of a blissful silent state, all happy exhaustion and no throbbing torment. Even thinking of Rachel Berry’s uber-short skirts doesn’t make her want to explode on the spot. It’s…nice.

Really nice.

“I feel,” she begins slowly, as Santana reaches around her for the plate cabinet, “like…we may have to do that again next month.”

Santana catches her eye, sliding a slice of piping hot pizza onto one of the Quality Company plates and pushing it across the counter. “We’ll see,” she says again, looking entirely too amused. “Totally depends on how horny _I_ am.”

“You’re always horny,” Quinn points out. Santana laughs.

“Fair enough. But next time, we are _definitely_ inviting Britt along.”

Quinn finds it’s a concession she is willing to make.


End file.
